


Veins for Wires

by marblepages



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Established Relationship, Light Angst, M/M, attack of the second person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-01
Updated: 2018-05-01
Packaged: 2019-04-30 20:09:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14504550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marblepages/pseuds/marblepages
Summary: How Bucky learns to love his arm.





	Veins for Wires

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [金属血脉](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7657651) by [cindyfxx](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cindyfxx/pseuds/cindyfxx)



> Reposting my fic from my deleted old account.

I.

Snap. Snap. Snap. Whiiiirrrrr.

Readjust the plates.

They always misalign in your sleep.

Frustrating.

Gears grind against wires against bone.

It goes deep into your body.

Far deeper than what you see beneath metal skin.

Snap. Whiiiirrr. Crit. Snap.

Oil for soap.

It travels through the grooves and drips down your fingers.

It reminds you of blood.

Snap. Snap. Whiiirrr. Snap. Crit.

You grip the edge of the sink and look away.

You hate to look.

 

II.

Before. After.

Before. After.

Flesh.

Titanium.

Flesh...

 

You've been here all day, lying on the sofa.

You aren't posing, but Steve draws you anyway.

Piles of sketchbooks only half filled, yet he sketches in a new one.

Why does he do this?

 

After.

Titanium.

Titanium.

Titanium.

Why does he draw it?

Your hand spills forth across the page like an avalanche.

They fold out of each other, tumbling and tumbling.

Different poses.

Each extending.

He loves you. You can tell by the details.

And god it's stunning how his shading makes it look like you have fingerprints.

 

It's still a machine.

 

You understand his intentions.

It's beautiful and sensual.

But everything about Steve is beautiful and sensual.

You wonder what it must be like to see beauty in everything.

 

III.

You've dreamt about tearing it off before.

They're such pleasant dreams.

You crack off each plate with your bare fingers.

The sharp edges of metal cut into your skin until you bleed.

Because you still can bleed despite all you believe.

 

But how deep do these wires go?

 

If you rip them out, will you cut out your heart?

IV.

You look at Steve's drawings.

You look at your palm.

You look at Steve's drawings.

You look at your palm.

 

V.

He hands you the knife because he trusts you.

Merry Christmas.

Steve looks at you with bated breath.

You know he's wondering if he's made a mistake.

It's a beautiful knife. Stainless steel.

There's a red bow tied around the neck.

Steve says: Sam helped me pick it out. He knows a specialty kitchen store.

Sam says: You can't cut onions with dull blades, man.

You look at the knife and feel nothing.

There are no flashbacks.

You're just another man holding a knife.

Because at the end of the day, it's just metal.

Your hand has no memory.

It's you that makes the decisions.

That's what Steve's trying to tell you.

You tell him: Thank you

You lean over to wrap both arms around his shoulder.

Merry Christmas.

VI.

You've got to let me do this on my own, Steve

You don't think he wants to hear it, but you tell him anyway.

 

VII.

You imagine peeling back the plates--

 

VIII.

Touch me with it

It’s a question wrapped in a directive.

You say: I don’t know, Steve.

He says: You’re not gonna hurt me with it.

You know you’re not.

And it’s not about relapsing either because you’re past that.

You know you’re not going to punch him or choke him.

But you worry that maybe his skin will get caught between the plates.

Maybe the wires will short circuit.

Excuses.

You tell him: Give me time.

 

VIV.

You hate the stench of hospitals.

You're here because you have to be.

White on white on white on white on white on white.

And you're a literal black stain.

Your uniform is not meant for the likes of children.

Too dark where there should be color.

These kids need color.

Everything is much too bright.

You loiter by the door.

It is much more satisfying to watch Steve anyway.

He's lost somewhere within the gaggle of kids. Their tiny fingers grip onto his biceps as he lifts them into the air. They struggle to hang on, slipping off the smooth surface of his uniform.

He grunts as though he lifts the earth, and all the children squeal with laughter.

Someone tells you: Your arm is cool.

You turn around to look at the girl.

How old is she?

Thirteen.

Maybe.

Like you, she has no arm.

You crouch down to her level so your eyes can meet.

She asks you: What happened?

Long story.

You say: Army.

She nods in understanding: My uncle fought in Vietnam.

You ask: What happened to you?

Keep things casual.

It sounds like you're sharing war stories.

She says: Car accident. Doctors said my arm was crushed. They had to amputate.

You look at her and look at her and look at her.

Although she doesn't say anything else, you know she understands your pain.

And you understand hers.

You say: I’m sorry.

She says: It's alright. The doctors say that Tony Stark might make me a new arm! If he does, I hope he makes me one like yours.

 

IX.

Snap. Snap. Snap. Whiiirrrr.

Readjust the plates.

Use your other hand to wipe the condensation off the mirror. You can't scrape the glass again.

Snap. Snap. Whiirrrr. Snap. Critttttt.

Why does water not hurt you? How deep are these wires?

You think there is more to being inhuman than just what's on the surface.

Snap. Snap. Whirrrr. Snap.

She wants to get one just like it.

X.

A hole in the wall. A perfect masterpiece.

 

XI.

It's a part of you.

You didn't mean to do it.

It's a part of you.

It wasn't your fault.

It's a part of you.

They forced you to kill.

It's a part of you.

 

Except.

You don't want it to be a part of you.

It's a piece of the past that keeps hanging on. A leaf that won't fall.

It wraps around arteries and veins until you can't tell the difference between them and the wires.

You still see it caked with blood.

Because the blood between the platings might as well be rust.

You can never get it out. You can never unsee it.

Steve tries to plead with you.

You can't tell him how his voice resonates with the memory of metal striking his cheeks.

Crunch. Crit. Crack. Whiiiiiirrrrrrr.

You can't unhear these sounds.

"Please, Bucky, stop torturing yourself!"

Then it hits you.

You don't know how to stop.

XII.

You feel guilty about the hole.

 

XIII.

You look at Steve's drawings.

You look at your hand.

You look at his old portraits of you.

Then you look at the new.

How can a hand be a reflection of human life?

Somehow it is.

 

XIV.

You imagine peeling back the plates.

What do you expect to find there?

 

XV.

Steve sings when he cooks.

It used to be Frank Sinatra, but now it's Kesha.

You blame Barton.

Secretly, you love it.

You like Steve when he's carefree and the lines curve around his eyes.

You dip the wooden spoon in the pasta sauce and let Steve lick the tip. He hums and glows, and it makes you feel warm.

He tells you: You can make anything taste good.

You smile: Anything?

"Anything. Seriously. When we were kids, you could make dishwaterinto really good soup!"

You laugh.

You laugh because the memory makes you happy.

You laugh because you remember it.

Fresh off the edge of your smile, you take the knife Steve gave you. With your metal hand you finish cutting up the vegetables.

You like cutting food when you cook.

It shows you how your dexterity can be used for something that isn't harmful.

It teaches you, you can still be in control.

The peppers and onions look like tiny jewels. It's foolish and bizarre but the sight makes you happy.

 

XVI.

Snap. Snap. Snap. Snap.

Admire the layers of it.

It's yours now.

Snap. Whirr. Whiiiiiirrrrrr. Crit.

You can make it good.

You can change its original intentions.

Because they wired it to your body.

You are free.

 

XVII.

It's just a limb.

 

XVIII.

It saves your life.

 

A mission gone south finds you tumbling over the edge of a rooftop.

You and the target both cling onto the brick ledge.

Dangling several stories high, you focus all of your strength on hoisting yourself back to the top.

Gravity works against you. As well as the winds.

Through the corner of your eye you see the man struggle.

His fingers are slipping off the ledge.

Meanwhile, your metal ones scrape and lock into the brick.

And to your horror, a moment later, he falls.

You hear him scream and your blood turns cold.

Because you know what that feels like.

Your metal arm pulls you upward.

Whiirrrrrrrrrr. snapsnapsnapsnapsnapsnap.

The pressure travels through your body, and you realize that a normal shoulder would have dislocated.

But you're fine.

You're alive.

You look at your hand.

Red dust cakes your fingers.

You rub it against the stubbled concrete of the rooftop.

Thank you.

Thank you.

Thank you.

XIX.

"You can draw it. For real this time. I'm letting you,"

Steve's looks at you. Disbelief. Confusion. Joy.

"You serious?"

"Completely."

It's a part of me.

I want to give it a chance to be beautiful.

XX.

Steve's at the counter, stirring sugar into a mug of coffee.

He's still drowsy from sleep, so he doesn't hear you coming.

Several minutes under ice cold water, your fingers are ready.

You sneak up behind him on the balls of your feet and press the tips of your fingers against his skin.

He jerks back and squeals.

You laugh.

He's flustered, not angry, and then he laughs too.

It's good to find the humor in it.

 

XXI.

You look at your hand.

Wiggle your fingers.

Watch each plate ripple and move.

They shift like water.

Relaxing.

Crit. Crit. Crit. Crit. Crit.

You do it just to hear the noise it makes.

You're no longer ashamed to admit.

You've actually grown to like the way it sounds.

 

XXII.

You still keep it under layers of clothes to avoid awkward glances.

But you no longer feel embarrassed.

When you're out and about you sometimes forget that it's metal.

But when you remember you no longer feel depressed.

It's the fact that it can survive with you during the mundane activities of everyday life that puts you at ease.

You like that it doesn't always have to be something special.

 

XXIV.

Metal skin against his cheekbone.

The sensors beneath your fingertips alert you to his warmth.

Metal skin. A delicate trace down his face.

Steve yawns: Morning, Buck.

Heads on pillows, you stare at each other. He takes your hand and weaves it between his fingers.

Metal on skin on skin on metal.

You’ve never felt this whole.

 

XXIII.

Snap. Snap. Snap. Whirrrrr.

Readjust the plates.

It's becomes as mundane as brushing your teeth.

Critt. Snap. Snap.

You no longer mind when the metal unexpectedly brushes your skin.

It is there like you no longer feel it.

Snap. Snap. Snap.

That's normal.

 

XXIV.

 

You imagine peeling back the plates.

What do you expect to find?

Veins for wires.

That is what you'll see.

 

  
  



End file.
